


easy money

by dreamtiwasanarchitect



Category: Trust (TV 2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Craigslist, Diners, Drinking, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Bottoming, Gratuitous References to Americana, M/M, Panties, Prostitution, Road Trips, Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29301741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamtiwasanarchitect/pseuds/dreamtiwasanarchitect
Summary: help wanted - EASY MONEY!!!im a trust-fund baby looking to cash in but i need some help. if ur not afraid to get ur hands dirty, lets talk. BIG PAYOFF.The ad was a joke. He didn’t expect anyone to answer it.He definitely didn’t expect Primo.
Relationships: John Paul Getty III/Primo Nizzuto
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	easy money

**Author's Note:**

> All right now that we have *checks notes* four fics for this pairing, feels like it's time for...a modern AU! And it's sleazy as fuck!!!
> 
> Please see the end notes for more info about the sex if consent issues are triggering for you.

“Get your feet down,” Primo tells him.

Paul’s mother always told him not to put his feet on the dash, too—she insisted that it was dangerous, that the airbag would shatter his legs if they got in a wreck. He suspects Primo’s concern is more about a smudge-free windshield. Also, he’s not even sure Primo’s piece-of-shit car has airbags. It might predate them.

He pulls his legs down to the seat and crosses them underneath himself anyway, rubbing absently at his cold toes. It’s almost eighty degrees but the A/C is one of the few things in this car that does work, and Primo’s had it blasting all day.

Paul reaches over for the radio dial, trying to change it from the oldies stations that Primo insists on. If he hears “Hotel California” one more time he’s going to lose his shit, even more than he already has. 

Primo slaps his hand away without taking his eyes off the road. 

Paul sulks, sliding down in his seat and chewing on a Twizzler from the mega pack he wheedled Primo into buying him at a gas station in Nevada.

Primo scowls and sticks another Marlboro between his teeth. As “Anyway You Want It” transitions to “Heartache Tonight,” they cross over the Colorado state line. 

Paul’s never been to Kansas before. So far, he’s not impressed. 

———

Primo pulls off I-70 and turns into the town of Hays, population basically nothing. They arrive at a Super 8, the latest variation on a theme of Motel 6es and Days Inns and Econo Lodges. 

The same routine they’ve kept for the last four or five states: Paul waits in the car while Primo checks them in, cap pulled over his head, sunglasses pushed over his eyes. 

“Does this one have a pool?” Paul asks when Primo comes back. His swimming trunks are still at his apartment, more than thirteen-hundred miles and nineteen hours of driving away, but he could improvise. 

Primo doesn’t answer. He grabs their duffel from the trunk and heads in the direction of their room without waiting for Paul to follow. 

Also part of the routine: Paul hesitates. He could go inside and tell the concierge his entire sob story—rich kid, held for ransom, on the road with his kidnapper—except that’s not the real story, and Paul’s painfully aware that the whole thing will unravel pretty quick under any type of scrutiny. 

He’s such a fucking idiot. There’s probably a way out of this, but not one that doesn’t end in a disappointed mother, a furious father, and complete disinheritance. Better to keep living in this weird limbo world, where he’s still technically a billionaire-to-be and his parents presumably think he’s a victim. 

He pulls on his ratty Converse and hurries after Primo. 

This motel room is the same as all the others—single chair, single ancient TV, single bed. It’s the type of motel where all the rooms would smell like smoke, even the non-smoking ones, but it’s a non-issue because Primo is already cupping his hands around his lighter. The fresh fumes mingle with the stale smoke to create a smell that will be stuck to their clothes for the rest of eternity, and that’s somehow the least of Paul’s problems.

He bends down to pick through the duffel, which Primo has unceremoniously tossed on the floor.

While Paul washes several pairs of dirty socks and underwear with Woolite in the bathroom sink, Primo turns on the TV and flips through the channels. Paul leans back a little to peer out of the open door and sees Primo has stripped down to his underwear as he sprawls out on the bed. 

Just another night in paradise. 

———

Three months ago, Paul was entertaining the hot German twins from his Art and Social Activism class. The three of them sat on Paul’s dorm bed and passed around a pipe while Paul tried to gauge the likelihood of a threesome. 

“I’m a billionaire,” he told them, as though the Getty name wasn’t as impressive overseas as it was in the states.

It didn’t seem like news to the twins, but they still exchanged a meaningful look from where they were seated on either side of Paul. “Then why are we smoking our shit?” one of them asked. 

“I’m not a billionaire _yet_ ,” Paul explained. “It’s all in a trust. I don’t get to touch it until I’m twenty-six. Which is some fucking bullshit, by the way.” He still had no idea how he was going to afford this semester’s books, let alone next year’s tuition.

“But it’s your money,” said the other, or maybe it was the same one—he was a little too high to keep track.

“Yeah, but I don’t have any way of getting it.” He had the sense that the girls were not particularly interested in making a Paul sandwich, and that thought made him realize how much he would like an actual sandwich, though he didn’t have bread, meat, or cheese on hand and he was too broke to order Jimmy John’s, which was a new measurement of destitution. 

To take his mind off things, he leaned in the direction of the girl who looked slightly less disappointed and kissed her. She kissed him back, expertly if not enthusiastically, and they made out until her sister rapped him on the shoulder with the pipe. 

The girls left soon after the bowl was cashed, and Paul fixed himself a meal of ramen and stale Oreos. As he used his fork to separate the crumbling block of noodles, he got a terrible idea. 

———

After he hangs their delicates over the shower rod, Paul sits cross-legged at the end of the bed, a position that brings him closer to Primo’s slightly-smelly feet than he would prefer. 

Primo is watching _American Pickers_ , which is part of his normal rotation, along with _Myth Busters_ and _Pawn Stars_. Paul has no idea if he actually likes these shows—he never gives any sign that he does—or if he just wants to make Paul suffer. It’s probably at least a little bit of both. 

At the next commercial, Primo stands up and pointedly puts the remote on top of the TV before he starts putting his clothes back on. 

“Where are you going?” They stopped at Taco Bell on the way here, so he’s not going out for food.

Primo ignores him and leaves. Paul waits three minutes, then changes the channel to FX, which is showing one of the X-Men movies. He flops back on the pillows, starfishing. 

About an hour later, Primo comes back with dilated pupils and a general air of triumph.

“You scored?” Paul demands. “Did you bring some back?” He hasn’t been high since Colorado. 

Primo slaps at the power button on the TV, turning it off. 

“Hey—"

“Get in the bathroom. Stay there and don’t make a fucking sound, understand?” 

He stares. “What—”

Primo strides forward and pulls him off the bed with a single hand fisted in his t-shirt. He pushes Paul into the bathroom and slams the door shut, paying no mind to the way Paul almost breaks his neck on the edge of the tub. 

Maybe the police have caught up with them, Paul thinks, and his heart starts to pound. He presses his ear to the bathroom door, and he hears the main door open, then another voice—a woman, talking in low, clipped sentences. He can’t make out what she’s saying.

There’s silence for a few minutes, then the bed starts to squeak. 

Motherfucker.

The woman starts making noises and Paul tries to decide if she’s faking it or not. They’re loud, porn-star moans, but maybe Primo is just that good in bed, or maybe she’s a huge slut. 

Maybe she’s an actual hooker. That has to be it, Paul thinks. There’s no way Primo found and convinced a chick to come back to this shitty motel with him in less than an hour. 

Then Primo starts making noise, too—these sort of angry groans—and Paul stops thinking about the woman. 

After three weeks on the road, he’s seen Primo sleep, eat, drink, piss, brush his teeth, you name it—everything but this. Call it the rich-kid entitlement, the fact that he never wanted for anything when he was growing up, but not being able to see Primo do this, too, is getting under his skin.

It’s probably just hearing Primo get laid after he’s had a months-long dry spell. That’s all. He hasn’t even jacked off since he started making all these shitty decisions because he’s either been too stressed or too high.

Anyway, he can fix that. 

Paul unbuttons his jeans, unzips his fly, and shoves a hand down his boxers. 

He takes his time, because for once he knows Primo’s not going to barge in on him. He waits until he hears what he’s pretty sure is the sound of Primo coming before he picks up his own pace, since now it’s probably a matter of minutes before Primo throws the bathroom door open. He bites the wrist of his left hand as he catches most of his come in the right. A little bit dribbles between the cracks of his fingers and falls on the floor and he doesn’t bother to clean it up—not like this floor could get any dirtier.

There’s more low talking, then the sound of the door, and then, sure enough, Primo barges back into the bathroom. He starts the shower and steps out of his jeans without so much as glancing at Paul.

Paul washes his hands and slinks back into the bedroom. Mixed in with all the secondhand smoke, there’s a faint odor of women’s perfume, cheap and candy sweet. Definitely a hooker. 

Paul takes off his jeans and hops into bed. He thinks about taking the right, just to needle Primo, but the last time he tried that Primo kicked Paul over to the left so he could have his preferred side. Could be the post-orgasmic bliss, but tonight he’d rather skip picking a petty fight. 

———

Paul broke apart his last Oreo and licked the filling off as he re-read the posting. 

**_help wanted - EASY MONEY!!!_ **

_im a trust-fund baby looking to cash in but i need some help. if ur not afraid to get ur hands dirty, lets talk. BIG PAYOFF._

Fucking ridiculous, but why not? It was free entertainment, and that was the only kind Paul could afford, so he hit “post,” then pulled up Netflix and proceeded to watch five episodes of _Riverdale_. 

The ad was a joke. He didn’t expect anyone to answer it. 

He definitely didn’t expect Primo. 

———

“Where are we?” Paul asks absently as they pull into a Denny’s attached to a gas station. 

“Nebraska.”

Paul pauses, shoe in his hand. “So, wait, we’re headed south? Like to Mexico?”

“Fucking idiot, we’re going north.”

He could have sworn Nebraska was south of Kansas, but he doesn’t know enough about the Midwest to dispute it. “So, what, like to Canada?”

Primo makes a face. “Just north, all right? We’re just driving. Shut the fuck up and let’s go.”

They slide into a booth, cracked leather creaking beneath them. Primo looks shifty, like always, with his thick aviators and his broad hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He runs his fingers through his hair, which is shaggy and a little greasy but still not as long or disheveled as Paul’s. 

“What are you getting?” Paul has never been to a Denny’s, and he’s a little overwhelmed by the scope of the menu.

Primo takes off his sunglasses and rubs his red-rimmed eyes. He must be in the throes of a hangover from whatever he smoked or snorted last night.

A waitress comes to take their order. Paul is always afraid someone’s going to start asking questions—like what’s a scrawny Cali kid doing in bumfuck nowhere with this thirty-something Italian guy who looks like he might start holding the place up—but no one ever does, this waitress included. She’s probably Paul’s age, and she doesn’t even say anything as she waits for them to order.

“Coffee,” Primo says, tapping the table in front of him. He only eats about one meal for every three of Paul’s. “He wants Jr. Grand Slam. Pancakes, egg, bacon.”

Paul’s mouth drops and his face goes hot, but Primo just passes both plasticky menus to the waitress, who either sees weird shit like this every day or is too tired to be shocked. 

“What the fuck, man,” Paul hisses when they’re alone again.

Primo shrugs. “You took too long.” He leans back, an arm draped over the booth. “You should say ‘thank you.’”

“Thanks, daddy,” Paul mutters. He means it to be sarcastic, but that’s—not exactly how it comes out, and he wants to die a little. 

Primo smirks.

“I didn’t—fuck off,” Paul sputters. He kicks out under the table but Primo catches his ankle before he makes contact.

“Watch it,” Primo says, hand slipping underneath the cuff of Paul’s pants and squeezing. He doesn’t let go until the waitress comes back with his coffee.

———

Five days after the ad went live on Craigslist, Paul found himself at a dingy bar in a part of town he usually didn’t venture to. He sat nervously at one of the sticky tables and stared nervously at the door. The guy said his name was Primo, which sounded fake but maybe it was just Italian—what the fuck did Paul know?

More importantly, what the fuck was he doing?

It was ten minutes past the agreed-upon meeting time and no one had entered the bar since Paul had arrived, but then he felt someone standing behind him, so he twisted in his seat and there was a man—all dark clothes and broad shoulders and questionable facial hair. He watched Paul through hooded eyes that looked sleepy one minute and sharp the next. 

Paul’s first thought was that this was a man who knew how to do some crime.

They bellied up to the bar. Primo ordered bourbon so Paul did too, even though he preferred white liquors, ideally mixed with something fizzy and sweet. 

Back at the table, Primo lit a cigarette.

“Um,” Paul said. “I don’t think you can do that in here.” 

Primo exhaled a long stream of smoke without comment. “Allora, how much are you asking?” 

Paul blinked. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Whatever you think.”

He’d just met Primo, and he didn’t know him at all, but he could still tell he liked hearing that— _whatever you think_.

“Fifty million,” Primo said, so decisive that Paul nodded.

“Okay, yeah, sure. Cheers, cheers to that.” 

Primo smiled then, baring very white teeth for a guy who seemed like he smoked a lot. They clinked glasses and the bourbon burned Paul’s throat as they hashed out all the details of the world’s dumbest get-rich-quick scheme. 

———

The next night at a Comfort Inn, Primo leaves and comes back insisting Paul fuck off to the bathroom again. 

Paul crosses his arms and grips the remote, determined not to be torn away from the re-run of _Suits_ he’s gotten invested in. “Seriously? No, come on, man, fuck off. Use the car.”

“Fucking move!” 

“No!” 

Primo moves to grab him and Paul tries to wiggle away, but Primo’s arms lock around his waist. They’re of a height, but Primo is twice as broad and apparently infinitely stronger. He hauls Paul to the bathroom and shoves him to the floor. 

Fuming, Paul sits with this back to the door. He listens as Primo lets in his hook-up du jour. This time, it’s a man’s voice he hears, as deep as Primo’s. Once the moaning starts, Paul can’t tell who’s who. 

He lays on the nasty bathroom floor, increasingly more annoyed. He’s tired of shitty motels and greasy fast food and playing at being Bonnie and Clyde. The only thing Primo’s ever given him that his parent’s money couldn’t buy is attention, and now he doesn’t even have that. 

He’s mad enough that he stops caring about the consequences of drawing Primo’s ire. He starts banging on the door as he yells, “Help! Hey, help, he’s got me locked in here!”

All the sounds of fucking abruptly cut off and Paul holds his breath. 

Seconds later, the bathroom door bursts open on Primo, completely naked and dick still half-hard. He looks absolutely murderous. He slaps Paul across the face so hard it knocks him on his back.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing? Cazzo!” 

Paul grabs at his smarting cheek. “You can’t just lock me in here, you fucking prick—”

“What the fuck!” The other guy is still on the bed, but he’s staring into the bathroom, expression horrified.

“You stay there!” Primo yells over his shoulder.

“No, no way, this is fucked—” The guy jumps off the bed and starts hunting for his clothes. 

“You fucking piece of shit,” Primo spits at Paul before he runs back into the room. He snatches the duffel from the ground and feels around inside as he moves to block the door. For a split second Paul wonders what he’s doing, then he sees the glint of the gun. 

Paul realizes what’s about to happen a second too late. “Primo, Primo, wait—”

What’s louder, the sound of the gunshot or the guy’s body dropping to the floor? They both echo in Paul’s ears. 

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck.” 

“Pack up this shit!” Primo screams at him, gesturing with the gun. Paul scrambles to obey, shoving everything into the duffel and trying not to look at the blood pooling on the floor. Primo watches him angrily as he gets dressed, gun shoved down his pants. 

When he’s done, Primo’s hand locks around his arm in a vice grip.

“Let’s go, you little bastard,” he growls, and drags Paul out to the car. 

———

For the first month, it was just Paul hanging out in Primo’s studio apartment. He entertained himself by drawing on his tablet while he rode the high of whatever drugs Primo brought home for him. Primo himself was gone more often than not, so Paul was the master of his own shitty little domain, lord of the lumpy mattress, king of the moldy kitchen. 

His family paying the fake ransom was looking more and more unlikely every day, but Paul was happy to wait it out a little. He’d spent most of his life being pampered and wanting for nothing. When he moved out for school, his father had sneered and told him he’d come crawling back, and even though that hadn’t actually happened yet, it had been a near thing. He’d done the whole working his way through school thing, and found it incredibly overrated; the coffeeshop he worked evenings and afternoons at didn’t pay for shit and all the customers were assholes. Lounging on the couch and binging on a magically endless supply of weed and junk food, however, kind of rocked. 

So he was happy to stretch out his “kidnapping.” But it all went to hell when one day Primo came storming into the apartment with the sound of police sirens not far behind. 

Paul was high out of his mind at the time, and he only stared when Primo snatched the iPad out of his hands.

“This fucking shit!”

Primo pulled his gun and brought the butt down on the screen, again and again until it started to shatter. Paul stared for a moment, too stoned to do anything but watch the destruction of the most expensive and important thing he owned, until his brain finally channeled the horror he felt into words. 

“What the fuck, man!” 

Primo looked up at him, eyes wild, and waved the broken tablet in his face. “They fucking tracked you, cazzo, you little idiot.”

“Oh,” is all Paul said. Location services. Fuck. 

“The fucking cops are coming,” Primo said, already moving on while Paul was still staring at all the shattered hopes and dreams that had been held in that iPad. Primo threw clothes into the duffel, some of his own, some of Paul’s, and then he went into the bathroom and started packing toiletries, seemingly at random—a tube of toothpaste but only one toothbrush (Paul’s), Primo’s deodorant and Paul’s comb. 

“Put your shoes on,” Primo barked, and Paul did, aware of the approaching sirens. 

“What—what are we, uh, doing?” Everything was moving at double speed. He wished he hadn’t smoked that third bowl. 

“Come on,” Primo said, and Paul didn’t ask any more questions. 

———

They drive through the night, or whatever’s left of it, and Paul gets the silent treatment from Primo the entire time. The sun starts to rise and Paul’s stomach growls.

“I’m hungry,” he says, voice small. “Can we stop somewhere?”

Primo doesn’t look at him, but he takes the next exit. He turns into a McDonald’s, and Paul’s mouth waters at the prospect of hashbrowns and sausage biscuits. Growing up, he never once ate a Happy Meal—further proof that his parents are monsters. 

“Large black coffee,” Primo says into the drive-thru.

“All right, I have one large black coffee,” the tinny voice chirps back. “Will that be all for you today?”

Paul leans forward. 

“That’s all,” Primo says before Paul can speak. 

Paul throws himself back in his seat, head thumping against the headrest. 

“I have to pee,” Paul says half an hour later, hoping Primo will stop at a gas station and allow himself to be wheedled into buying Paul something to eat—maybe one of the disgusting little sandwiches from the foodwarmer that probably gets cleaned once a year. 

Primo slams on the brakes so suddenly it flings Paul forward, his chin knocking against the dash. Primo puts the car in park, never mind that they’re in the middle of the highway.

“Go, then,” he says, sounding bored. 

“What the fuck, we’re still on the road!”

“Then you better fucking hurry.” 

Paul’s napping when they stop at a Motel 6. He’s groggy and disoriented as he follows Primo into the room, and he barely sets foot in it before Primo’s hands are on him, dragging him into the bathroom. He pushes Paul to sit on the closed toilet and uses his belt to tie Paul’s hands in front of him. 

Paul watches Primo rummage through their bag and wonders if he’s dreaming. Maybe he’s dreamt this entire thing, the whole cross-country road trip from hell. He flexes his wrists, but the belt doesn’t give.

Primo comes back with some socks—probably dirty, since most of them currently are—and attempts to shove them into Paul’s mouth, but dream or not, this is a little too far, so Paul wriggles away, mouth clamped shut.

Primo fists at his hair. “I won’t kill another puttana because you won’t shut the fuck up,” he says, giving Paul’s head a shake. 

“Yeah, well, it’s not a great time, listening to you get off while I’m trapped in the bathroom,” Paul shoots back, head ducked to avoid the socks. 

“This isn’t a fucking vacation!”

“Yeah, don’t I fucking know it! This is all your shitty idea, man! You’re a fucking shitty kidnapper!”

Primo slams Paul’s head down on the bathroom sink so hard it makes him dizzy. His head rings and he’s too stunned to move as Primo pulls out his pocket knife, flipping open the sizable blade. 

His other hand splays across the side of Paul’s head, holding it in place. He brings the knife to soft cartilage of Paul’s ear. 

“Maybe if I send mommy and daddy some bits of you they’ll change their minds about the money, huh?”

Last night he saw Primo shoot a guy, and still he wasn’t afraid.

He’s afraid now.

Primo’s breath skirts over his ear in uneven gusts. His thumb traces the tip of Paul’s ear. 

“Primo,” Paul says. His voice is thick but he doesn’t bother to beg because he knows it won’t make any difference. 

Primo lets him go with a little shove. “Get up,” Primo says. 

Paul does, stumbling back to the opposite wall on shaky legs. Primo sets the knife on the sink and looks pointedly at Paul’s crotch. Paul follows his gaze. He’s hard, which is an unsettling surprise. 

“It’s—it’s the adrenaline,” he manages.

Primo huffs a breath. A smirk plays around his lips but there’s still something dangerous in the set of his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Paul says slowly, bound hands held out in front of him in a pretense of defense. “I shouldn’t have screamed in the bathroom last night.” 

Then he gets another stupid idea, one more mistake in a long line of colossal fuck-ups. He sinks down to his knees.

“I could make it up to you,” he tells Primo.

It’s a rush, the heady weight of all of Primo’s attention. It’s the high he’s been chasing in lieu of drugs. 

Primo only has to take two steps forward to close the entire distance between them. This close, Paul can see his cock twitching inside his jeans.

Primo’s fingers tangle in his hair again and tug, forcing his head back at an impossible angle. 

“Like this?”

“Yeah.”

Primo scoffs. “Ask nice.”

Paul swallows. Not even two minutes later and he’s already in over his head. Classic. “Please. I wanna—I wanna suck your dick.” His cheeks feel hot. 

Primo makes a face, clearly unimpressed, but he undoes his pants and pushes them down around his thighs, along with his underwear. “Get to it. Make it good.”

Paul’s experience with dicks is pretty limited to his own (and Liam Pierce’s, that one time in junior year), but how hard can it be? He leans forward and licks at the tip of Primo’s cock, which is bigger than ideal for him. It tastes a little salty, but mostly fleshy, kind of how Paul imagines it would be like if he licked his own armpit.

For a while he tries to make it good, taking Primo as deep as he can, but soon his jaw starts to feel sore and his knees begin to ache. He slumps with Primo held loosely in his mouth, wondering if he can get out of this with just a half-hearted hand job, until Primo’s hands fist in his hair and he holds Paul in place as he fucks his throat.

It makes Paul want to apologize to every girl he’s ever done this to. He keeps feeling like he’s going to gag and barf or choke and pass out, but finally Primo comes in his mouth, and that’s gross, too—he doesn’t like any part of it, but the fact that it’s so warm is the thing that freaks him out the most. 

He swallows because he doesn’t think Primo will take it well if he spits it out, and when he glances up after, face burning, Primo is staring down at him, eyes dark and satisfied. Maybe Paul’s not into giving guys head, but the way Primo looks at him—yeah, he’s into that. 

Primo undoes the belt around his wrists. “Get yourself off,” he says, and Paul looks down, a little surprised to find he’s still hard, one of the dubious benefits of being nineteen. 

Paul rocks up to stand on his knees so he can shove his pants and underwear down. It feels like he exists outside his body, like he’s watching himself as he wraps a hand around his own cock and starts tugging, just like he would if he were alone. 

But he’s not alone. The weight of Primo’s gaze is heavy, and the glittering depths of his pupils are a black hole, sucking Paul further and further in. 

Everyone else Paul has ever fucked treated him like their big break—like if they performed well enough, Paul would slit open his wrists for them and the entire Getty inheritance would come pouring out.

Primo treats him like something he has the right to break, and after Paul pretty much fucked up their arrangement, maybe he is. Their entire acquaintance was formed on the promise of a payday; they never had to pretend it was anything else. And even now that the payday is nowhere in sight, Paul still owes. 

That’s the difference. All the girls (and Liam Pierce) wanted Paul to be in their debt. Primo already knows Paul is in his.

Primo underscores this realization by yanking Paul’s hair. “Hurry up. I’m tired.”

Paul comes all over his hand. 

Primo pulls up his pants and pats Paul on the head, then leaves the bathroom. Less than a minute later, Paul hears the TV click on.

He washes his hands before splashing water on his face. He brushes his teeth and tries not to think about how he’s scrubbing off the residue of Primo’s spunk. 

Paul turns off the bathroom light as he leaves it. Primo is bare-chested and under the covers, and he keeps his eyes fixed on _Property Brothers_ as Paul tosses his jeans in the general direction of their duffel and climbs into bed. 

Wordlessly, Primo offers him the remote. 

———

The first night they left LA, Primo drove for nine hours until they hit the east edge of Utah. He pulled over on the side of the road—randomly, as far as Paul could tell—and rolled his jacket into a ball before reclining his seat as far back as it could go.

“What are we doing?” Paul asked, referring more to the general plan at this point in time than the less-than-great prospect of sleeping in the car. 

“Getting away,” Primo said, eyes shut as he settled his head on the makeshift pillow.

“Maybe—maybe we should go back, though,” Paul suggested. He pulled his knees to his chest. “We could come clean, I could explain everything, we didn’t do anything that bad. I don’t think we’d get in trouble.” He paused, picking at his shoe. “Or like. Not very much.” 

“You want to go back?” Primo’s eyes opened, flashing dangerously in the dark. “Fine. Get out and fucking walk. I’m not going back to get arrested for your bullshit. Cazzo.”

“Okay, chill, dude, it was just like, an idea. I don’t really wanna sleep in the car. It feels kinda like the beginning of a bad horror movie, you know?”

Primo sat up, glaring. “You don’t shut the fuck up, I’ll show you a bad horror movie.” 

Paul spent the next three minutes trying to figure out how to put his own seat down until Primo, presumably sick of hearing his fumbling, reached over and pulled the right lever. Paul curled up and closed his eyes, but he didn’t sleep until they were back on the road the next day. 

———

They stop at a Walmart, another place Paul’s never been, to restock toiletries and car snacks. They make their own ways through the store with the understanding they’ll meet at the registers, and Paul gets in line to check out. As he clutches his deodorant and his Sour Patch Kids, he glances around for Primo, feeling a weird sort of separation anxiety.

He’s about to start panicking for real as he places his items on the conveyor belt, partly because Primo has the cash and the keys, but then Primo shoulders his way past everyone else in line and joins Paul as he slaps something down on the register. 

Paul blinks at the six-pack of women’s underwear. If the cashier finds this as odd as Paul does, she doesn’t show it. Paul tries to catch Primo’s eye, but he doesn’t look at Paul as he hands over twenty dollars and takes the plastic sack in exchange. 

Paul spends the next thirty minutes fixating on the panties and how to ask why the fuck Primo bought them, but he gets distracted when Primo takes the next exit. He pulls into an empty gas station, but Paul can see that they still have a mostly-full tank. Maybe he has to take a shit.

Paul starts to unbuckle his seatbelt, but Primo shoots him a quick look. “No. You stay here. Get down.” He throws his cigarette stub out the window. 

“Down?” Paul repeats, confused, but Primo’s already out the door, pulling his buff over his nose as he pushes into the gas station. 

The hair on the back of Paul’s neck stands up, and a second later, he watches through the window as Primo pulls his gun on the cashier. 

Fuck. Paul considers barging in and trying to stop it, but it’s too late, so he just slides down in the seat, hoping there are no cameras and that the cashier doesn’t try to make a stand. 

Five long minutes later—Paul knows because he started counting in his head—Primo slides back into the car. He drops a stack of bills on Paul’s lap and peels out. Paul stares at the money scattered across his legs and tries not to think about what happened to the cashier. 

Paul’s almost figured out how he’s going to phrase what he wants to say when Primo turns the radio on. Billy Idol floods the car. 

_Shoot ‘em down, turn around, come on Mony_

Primo sings along with the “yeah”s, his yells a little out of sync with Billy’s, and Paul starts counting the money. There’s almost four-hundred dollars, so in Fargo, a place Paul has at least heard of, they spring for an actual hotel, not a motel, and a decent one at that. 

After Paul closes the door behind him, the pack of underwear hits him in the chest. 

“Wear those,” Primo tells him, and starts raiding the mini bar.

“Dude, no, fuck off.”

Primo glances at him, mouth in an unimpressed slant, like he knows Paul is going to do exactly as he’s told.

“Give me the vodka,” Paul says, deciding to pick his battles. 

“You’re too young.” 

“Come on.” 

Primo relents and tosses him the little vodka shooter. Paul takes it and rips into the underwear while his chest is still burning. It’s a six-pack of bikinis and each pair has a little bow on the front. He decides the blue-and-black striped pair is the least emasculating, so he pulls those on while Primo watches, reclined on the bed, which is littered with empty shooters, in an exaggerated stretch.

“Come on,” Paul says. “I feel—fucking stupid.” The women’s cut doesn’t really cover any of his junk, and the back feels like it sags around his bony ass. Primo would probably fill them out better, but he bites that comment back. 

“Yeah, you look fucking stupid,” Primo says, but he’s staring at Paul with intent. “Come here.”

Paul climbs on to the bed and Primo tugs his shirt off so he’s stripped down to the panties. He manhandles Paul into his lap and starts fondling him through the cotton, which—feels pretty good. It gets Paul hard, at least. 

The position brings their faces awkwardly close. Paul isn’t sure where to look. On an impulse, he goes in for a kiss. Primo’s mustache scratches at Paul’s upper lip and his hands grope at his ass and Paul feels like he’s in some sleazy 70s porno. 

Primo is a good kisser, though. His lips are soft and he’s not shy about using his tongue. His fingers trail over the curve of Paul’s ass and he starts rubbing his fingers against Paul’s crack, bunching the fabric of the panties. 

“I want to fuck you, Paul.” He says “Paul” like “Paol,” something that always delights Paul— Primo seldom addresses him by name, but maybe the novelty is what makes him like it so much. The rubbing against his hole intensifies and Paul tries not to twitch away. He realizes Primo is waiting for an answer.

“Uhm. I haven’t, I haven’t done—that before. I guess—you’ll go slow, right?”

Primo grunts, presumably in agreement.

“Uh. Okay, yeah,” Paul says, because what else is going to happen?

Primo moves Paul off his lap and pushes him on to this back, then he gets out of bed and disappears into the bathroom. He comes back with the little bottle of hotel lotion, which he sets on the nightstand as he starts to take his own clothes off.

“Wait,” Paul says once he puts two and two together, “is that, like…safe?”

Primo glances at the lotion. “This is a nice hotel,” he says. 

“Yeah, but—is it, is it okay to put lotion…up there?”

“Sure,” Primo says unconvincingly. He tugs down Paul’s panties and uses his knee to knock Paul’s legs apart. 

Primo settles in between Paul’s legs and squeezes some lotion into his palm. He slicks up a finger, then takes one of Paul’s ankles in his clean hand and pulls his leg into a butterfly position. 

Every muscle in Paul’s body goes tense as he tries not to flinch away from the cool, slippery finger pushing at his asshole. Primo brings his other hand to Paul’s belly and gives it a couple light slaps. “Relax or it won’t go in,” he snaps. 

“I don’t—it’s fucking weird,” Paul says, sucking in a breath as the tip of Primo’s finger slides into him. It feels like he might as well have shoved a cucumber up there. Primo has big hands, thick fingers, but his dick’s even bigger, and the thought of taking it is starting to really freak Paul out.

He can tell Primo is being careful, or at least trying, but he’s clearly impatient and ready to get to the main event. When Paul unclenches by just a fraction, Primo pulls out his finger and comes back with a second. 

“Fuck,” Paul says into his arm. “Fuck, Primo, it hurts.” 

“Stop being a baby,” Primo says, but he pauses and waits, two fingers pressed up into Paul. 

Paul takes several deep breaths. “Okay.”

Primo starts to scissor his fingers, which still feels weird and invasive, but then he touches on what must Paul’s prostate, and fuck—Paul never stuck his fingers in an outlet as a kid, but he imagines this must be kind of what it feels like.

“Shit,” he hisses.

Primo smirks and presses down on that spot again. 

“I bet I could make you come like this,” he tells him, accent thick and voice almost taunting. It would be preferable to getting fucked, Paul thinks. 

The third finger goes in a little easier. There’s a stretch, but the prospect of a prostate orgasm has effectively calmed Paul’s nerves. He feels unpleasantly empty when Primo takes his fingers away.

Primo slicks up his cock with the lotion and lifts one of Paul’s legs to hook over his shoulder. 

“Slow,” Paul says quickly, suddenly anxious again. 

Primo doesn’t acknowledge him, just pushes his cock inside Paul, a steady assault on his insides. It feels like his organs are rearranging themselves, and Paul imagines them running for cover, desperately trying to make room.

Finally the pressure stills and so does Primo. He’s propped up with his hands on either side of Paul’s head, and his face is screwed up, almost looking pained. Maybe he’s already close and trying not to come. Maybe this will be over soon. Paul sort of hopes so. He shifts a little, trying in vain to get more comfortable with Primo’s dick shoved up him, and Primo groans. 

“Is—are you okay?”

“You’re fucking tight. And I need to fucking move. You are ready?”

The answer is no, not really—Paul is still a little concerned Primo’s cock is going to split him completely open—but he’s probably never going to be readier, so he nods.

That’s all it takes for Primo to start pounding him. The good news, Paul thinks, is that Primo probably can’t keep this up for long—but then he does. The pain dulls a little after a couple minutes, but when Primo throws Paul’s other leg over his shoulder, the angle changes and suddenly every thrust pushes against Paul’s prostate. 

Each push of Primo’s cock punches a little broken moan from Paul’s chest. Now it _sounds_ like they’re making a fucking porno. Paul clutches at Primo’s shoulders and holds on for dear life. 

“Touch yourself,” Primo orders, though it comes out in a pant. Paul thinks he might be close for real this time. 

Paul gets a hand around his cock, and after just a few pulls, his balls tighten. He’s still coming when Primo collapses on top of him, pinning Paul’s hand between their stomachs. 

If it weren’t for the heaving breathing in his ear, Paul would be worried that Primo had died. He wiggles until Primo finally takes the hint and moves off him. The sensation of come leaking out of his hole is absolutely revolting. 

Primo laughs at the look on his face. “Don’t like to be dirty, hm?”

“Shut up, dude, how would you feel about jizz dripping out of you?”

Primo raises an eyebrow. “It’s okay,” he says easily, and before Paul can even begin to process that, Primo rolls him onto his stomach.

“Stop fucking whining. I’ll clean you up.” 

Paul’s entire body jolts forward when he realizes Primo meant _with his tongue_. 

———

When they first met at the bar, Primo didn’t ask why. It was the first question Paul expected, but it never came, not at the bar and not at Primo’s apartment and certainly not on their insane road trip. 

It was probably for the best—Paul never figured out what he was going to say. That he legit needed the money to pay for school? That his family were all assholes, and this was petty revenge? That it sounded like as good a way as any to finally get the time of day from his dad? 

But in the end, the _why_ didn’t really matter. The only thing that mattered was that Primo agreed to the entire dumb-ass plan, leaning forward with one elbow propped on the scratched and sticky table, hand outstretched.

Paul shook on it and at the time all he could think about was how big and calloused Primo’s hand was, but looking back, that was it, the moment he sealed his fate. 

The truth is, whatever the reason, it was never really about the money for Paul. 

———

Paul sits cross-legged in the passenger seat, head lolling against the window. The final notes of “You Shook Me All Night Long” fade into the opening of “Carry On My Wayward Son.” Paul tried to change the station earlier, but whatever good will he engendered last night apparently wasn’t enough to earn him control of the radio. 

The car still smells like the Burger King breakfast they picked up earlier that morning. The Croissan’wich isn’t sitting great in Paul’s stomach and the leftover scent isn’t helping, so he rolls down a window. It’s an entire process since the windows aren’t electric and the crank is sticky, but finally he gets a breath of fresh air, relatively cool compared to the past few days. 

Primo’s going almost ninety miles per hour, so wind roars in his ears, but Paul doesn’t mind. He sticks his head out the window and lets the breeze blow through his hair.

Primo reaches over and shakes his leg. “Close it,” he says, voice raised over the wind.

Paul pouts but obeys. At least the car smells like it’s aired out a little. 

“Where are we actually headed?” Paul asks. Fifteen minutes ago, Primo turned east, and now Paul keeps seeing signs that say Minnesota. 

Primo glances over at him, expression indecipherable through his aviators. “Where do you want to go?” 

Of all the possible responses to his question, it’s the one Paul expected least. “Um. I don’t know.” He looks out the window, though there’s nothing to see, just the empty road stretching ahead of them. He turns back to Primo.

“I guess wherever you want,” Paul says.

Primo’s lips curl up. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Re: the sex—** Paul does ultimately consent to all the sex acts and does get some pleasure from them, but he's far from enthusiastic at times and it's clear that Primo is not into being a good, giving sexual partner. He's also violent to Paul in the lead-up to one of their sexual encounters.
> 
> Thank you for reading my trashy AU, I'd love to know what you thought!


End file.
